


The Fifth Tentacle

by applecore



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Dubious Consent, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Other, Oviposition, POV Second Person, Prostitution, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13387338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecore/pseuds/applecore
Summary: The Rubbery Man's shed his clothes somehow when you weren't paying attention. You should have; how they handle the buttons without opposable thumbs is a mystery someone would pay money for, probably. But you're too busy goosepimpling in the open air as you lie on your belly on this thin mattress, trying not to wonder what comes next.





	The Fifth Tentacle

The Rubbery Man's shed his clothes somehow when you weren't paying attention. You should have; how they handle the buttons without opposable thumbs is a mystery someone would pay money for, probably. But you're too busy goosepimpling in the open air as you lie on your belly on this thin mattress, trying not to wonder what comes next. 

The Rubbery Man didn’t specify what it was he wanted to do with you once he had you loosely tied to bedframe in this dank apartment, but he gave you a bottle of tonic, which you assume is meant to be sufficient to heal any damage sustained. You really are in desperate need of deep amber, of which he has satchels-full. He's given you a thousand nodules already: half up front, like you asked. 

Of course there's the scandal to think of, except you really can't afford to think of that at this juncture. Anyway, you have no intention of anyone finding out that you allowed a Rubbery Man so near your neathy regions.

The Rubbery Man burbles softly, tricking you into looking at him. He's quite green everywhere, tentacles for arms and tentacles for feet, and a fifth wriggling industriously between his—legs. Ah yes, there it is: the terror you knew was coming. "Mmmph," you say, but the cloth gag in your mouth muffles it quite effectively. Just as well. You need that amber.

He shuffles over to the bed with that familiar rolling Rubbery Man gait. Really it's a wonder they get around as well as they do on those tentacly things, especially considering they jam them into shoes. For the first time in your life you feel a peculiar, alien twinge sympathy for the Rubbery Men.

Then the Rubbery Man lays a hand-tentacle on you, and the sympathy is lost. "Mmmph!" you say again, louder this time, to no avail. The Rubbery Man burbles at you, softly, almost a croon. He strokes along your shoulder—a skin-crawling touch, just a shade slimy—and it comes to you that he's trying to make you comfortable. You can't tell him the anticipation only makes things worse. There's nothing for you to do but endure. 

Finally he seems satisfied, thank the Masters. He climbs up on the bed behind you. The angle is such that you can't quite see how he manages to crawl along the mattress without any knees. Instead you can only listen to him approach, still crooning. A tentacle comes to rest on your buttocks.

You assumed it’d be something like this, of course. What else could a Rubbery Man possibly be willing to pay so much for?

He burbles again. You wonder what he’s waiting for. You crane your neck to get a look, and see him stroking his hand-tentacle along his—private tentacle. His head is bowed, and membranes have closed over his eyes, his gaze drawn clearly inward; he reminds of yourself, performing the same act, which is the most horrible thought you’ve had so far today. You press your face into the mattress.

The pressure comes between your buttocks, as you knew it would. A whimper escapes you as the Rubbery Man pushes in. 

It’s—not so bad, really. Not so stiff as the endowment of one of your fellow men, and it’s tapered to a narrower point, but it slides in wonderfully smooth. All that slime, you think, and then decide very firmly not to think again. 

Well, you might as well enjoy it. Nobody need ever know. You try to shut out the burbling, and instead you focus on the sensation, the pleasant stretch. Mm, yes. 

Things progress as you expect, the Rubbery Man beginning to move rather more vigorously on top of you, its croon dropping into a lower register to a kind of not-quite-musical moan. Then the stretch you’d been enjoying becomes suddenly much greater. You feel as though a billiard ball has been introduced to the proceedings. “Mmph!” you say, twisting in alarm, but the Rubbery Man leans yet more weight on you.

Oh god, it’s too much. You’re not built to envelope something so large. In your panic you remember the tonic the Rubbery Man offered you along with the warm amber, and you’re suddenly certain it won’t be enough. How much of your haul must you spend to save yourself from an inconveniently-timed death?

Then the pressure passes, finally. That is, it passes into you. It sits just inside you, extremely present. Immediately you ache to rid yourself of it, but the Rubbery Man is still firmly lodged within you. 

You are hardly surprised when another great knot of pressure begins pushing in. You brace yourself this time, pushing back against it. The Rubbery Man slaps your buttocks. It stings more than it should. Then it stings a great deal more than it should. The creature must have poisoned you, something poisonous in its moist skin, you’re going to die and all the deep amber will be stolen from this forsaken hole by the time you get back—

The Rubbery Man roars—not like the tigers in the labyrinth, but like the zee. You realize it’s been doing so for some time now. There’s a touch on your head. The thing is stroking your hair, like it would a distressed weasel. Oh, the shame. Your face is burning hot.

When the Rubbery Man tries again to push the thing in you, whatever it is, you only moan softly. No thrashing or panic this time. It slides in eventually, joining the first, melding into one larger sensation in your gut.

There are more of the things. You lie there as each one is pushed inside. Eggs, you realize eventually. They must be eggs, and the Rubbery Man is depositing them in you. You wonder muzzily if that makes it a Rubbery Woman, but you immediately dismiss the idea as the height of foolishness. Everyone know there are only Rubbery Men. 

The peculiar sensation inside grows first into an ache and then a vicious cramp that you can do nothing about, bound and gagged as you are, with a Rubber Man seated atop your thighs. You can only moan hopelessly. Everything is misery. Will you even leave this bed before the boatman takes you?

Slowly you become aware that the Rubbery Man is no longer sitting atop you. Also, you can feel its slithery touch on your ankle. It’s untying you, you realize. You lie still as it circles the bed, untying each limb. Finally it comes to your head and tugs the gag out of your mouth. Your jaw aches fiercely. You work it gingerly.

The Rubbery Man burbles at you, tugging on one sore wrist. Slowly, with little enthusiasm, you roll over onto your back and assess the situation. 

You’d rather close your eyes again. You’re ridiculous. Absurd. Your belly is swollen as round as the cap of a mushroom, as a globe smuggled down from the surface. You can’t possibly step foot outside this dank dockside room looking so bizarre—assuming you can walk at all. You’ll waddle, most likely.

The Rubbery Man returns to your side, proffering the bottle of tonic. You check the label. It’s good old F.F. Gebrandt, and the stopper’s still wax-sealed. You pry the stopper off and take the whole bottle in a few long gulps, feeling the familiar gingery-cinnamon burn down your throat.

The Rubbery Man is burbling again. “What is it?” you ask. What can it possibly want? 

But it’s not speaking to you. Its eyes are on the grotesque deformity of your belly. It strokes you gently, bubbling softly—to the eggs, you suppose. The tiny rubbery children you’ve apparently agreed to house until such time as they are prepared to enter the wide and wondrous neath.

Hell.

The tonic is working. The raw places on your ankles and wrists are sealing shut, and the cramp in your gut eases to a tolerable sort of aching heaviness. It doesn’t feel all bad, really. There’s something satisfying about the stupendous fullness in your belly, the unfamiliar weight pressing on your hips. It’s novel, anyway, though assuredly not the kind of novelty you could boast about.

Although, really. Is intimacy with a Rubbery Man so much more scandalous than what people get up to in the Parlour of Virtue? An individual of sufficient persuasive skill could start a new fashion—a quite lucrative fashion, perhaps. Why shouldn’t that individual be you? And of course there’s the caper you needed the amber for, but it can wait. Procuring the amber was the difficult part.

Lassitude steals slowly over you. You’ve really worked quite hard today. Your eyes shut to the tuneless burbling of a rubbery lullaby.

END


End file.
